* * *
Something was wrong. My heart was in my throat, and my skin was clammy with sweat. Before my eyes had fully opened, I sat straight up, reaching out for my husband. He said nothing as my hands groped for him, but I knew he was close. I could smell him in the air and feel his heartbeats as though they were mine.
“Brando,” I said, voice still full of sleep and reflecting the night before. Little of it.
He sat on the edge of the bed, at the bottom, facing the open doors, his head hanging. I flew to him on my knees, touching his back and almost pulling my hand away—he was burning up. It wasn’t fever, or being overheated. His temperature ran hotter when he was wound tight.
“Brando,” I whispered, not wanting to push him over the edge. “I’m here. What is it,mio angelo?”
Slowly, I slid my hand up his back. He was saturated with sweat, his skin and hair. He still refused to answer me.
I hopped out of bed, catching sight of my insane hair and naked body in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. I quickly soaked a washcloth in cool water to put to his neck.
He finally looked at me when the coolness touched his skin. I crouched down in front of him, forcing him to meet my eye. His skin seemed to convulse.
His hands trembled so violently that when I set mine over his—he was holding them together—the strength of it shook us both.
“G-give me a s-second,” he barely got out.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said, reaching up to fix a loose strand of his hair that had fallen across his forehead. “I’m here.”
I waited. Seconds. Minutes.
“I—ah—” He cleared this throat and squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the tide back with will alone. “Elliott.”
With the speaking of my brother’s name, he started to shake even harder.
“All right,” I said, my voice soothing. “Brando, it’s all right.”
He didn’t seem all right. I realized, belatedly, what the day before had cost him. Going fishing, being in this house, next to my brother’s room, all of his things still left as they were, his pictures—it was hard at times to face reality, no matter how long he had been gone. Grief threw a powerful sucker punch.
“You had a dream of him?” I asked.
He shrugged. All he could manage, it seemed. “I—” He cleared his throat again. It was getting harder and harder for him to speak. His breath was almost shallow. “He was s-standing over me—ah, h-hell, I can’t even. I can’t s-stop s-shaking.”
I held his hands firmer in my grasp, trying to stop the tremble and absorb some of his anxiety. Or was it heartbreak? It was hard to get a feel on him, other than consuming tenseness.
I hadn’t even realized that we moved until I found myself crushed up against him, facing his chest on the bed. All I could do was wrap my arms around him, almost rocking. My skin was cool compared to his.
After a minute or two, his grip relaxed, but he wasn’t out of the woods, judging by the frantic beat of his heart.
“I couldn’t wake up,” he said, his voice thick. “I still don’t know if I have. He was so close.”
“You have,” I promised him. I took his hand and put it against my heart, drumming as fast as his. “I’m here,mio angelo.”
“I could’ve reached out and touched him,” he said, the words muffled in my neck.
I held him until he eased back to sleep, the corners of his eyes wet from the tears he fought to hide.
Chapter Nineteen
Scarlett
Expecting to feel the warmth of my husband, I reached out and found a void. I had no idea what time it was, but I figured it had to be late morning, at least ten o’clock.
The sun burned through the oppressive atmosphere, its heat plump on the rainstorm of last night, and I almost expected to breathe in steam. Lace curtains framed the windows, trapping the golden glow, and were as still as content ghosts.
No one had come to fix the air conditioner. Louisiana was hard on the motors of these machines. It was no surprise when one died from overwork.
